


in my veins

by nostalgicplant



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, M/M, Soulmates, Soulmates AU, soulmarks AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-20
Updated: 2018-03-20
Packaged: 2019-04-05 05:02:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14036733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgicplant/pseuds/nostalgicplant
Summary: ‘As long as he’s happy,’ Baz tells himself, which is what he’s been telling himself for the months leading up to tonight. ‘If he’s happy, I’ll be happy for him.’Soulmates AU





	in my veins

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my uber self-indulgent first piece of Carry On FanFiction! Come find me on tumblr at 'snoww-baz' !

On the worst day, Baz wakes up in Simon’s arms, the cursed tattoo glaring at him in the morning sunshine. Simon is still passed out, body curled into Baz, chestnut curls bouncing with each heady breath. The mark bitten onto his neck from the night before flashing like a highway sign on his neck. 

Look, it says, I am his. 

No matter how tonight ends, that mark will stay. Simon will stay as Baz’s until the mark has faded from view, and Simon from his arms. 

The sun is just beginning to rise over the spires of Watford. Baz lifts himself to his arms, resting softly against Simon’s side and trying not to wake him. He has been dreading today for a long time. Ever since he and Simon started dating, he has been dreading this. The day that decides if they’ll stay together or not, get to be in love or not. The day that Simon’s soulmark will be forever inked onto his body, his soulmate having the matching one. 

Simon says that he’ll stay, no matter what the mark on his arm looks like. No matter who it ends up being, he swears that he’ll stay anyways. That there’s tons of people out there who marry regardless of their soulmarks being different. Baz isn’t so convinced. 

Baz, already eighteen, already has his. He traces his own mark, the bat-like wings that stain the inside of is left forearm. Tossed across the sheets, he likes to imagine that it is an artful tattoo he chose, one that will match Simon’s perfectly. 

He’s heard of people trying to magically charm tattoos before, so that they warm like soulmarks. No one is successful. The universe cannot be thwarted when it comes to love. 

“Good morning,” a crackling voice says from below. “What time is it?” 

Baz turns back to Simon, who is blinking up at him. He turns slightly, bare shoulder shrugging off the covers as he reaches out toward Baz, hooking an arm around his waist. “Come back to bed,” he begs. “I can feel your worry from here.” 

Baz lowers himself to lay with Simon. Hair mussed from sleep and eyes wide, Simon looks young, vulnerable. He leans in, buries Simon’s head into Baz’s chest, lets him rest against him, all gangly and full of loose limbs. He smells like boy and lavender soap. He smells like home. 

Today is the last day before everything changes. 

Baz wants to stop time. He wants to freeze in the moments like these, when he and Simon are alone and slow and in love. He wants to die like this, before everything changes and Simon runs off with someone else. 

The thing is, he wants Simon to be happy. And if Simon leaves to go find his soulmate, Baz will be happy for him. Once their time at Watford comes to a close, who knows if he’ll ever even see Simon again. 

‘As long as he’s happy,’ Baz tells himself, which is what he’s been telling himself for the months leading up to tonight. ‘If he’s happy, I’ll be happy for him.’

The feeling of Simon’s lips against his draws Baz from his funk. Simon pulls back, a gentle morning kiss left upon Baz’s lips. 

“We have to get up soon,” Simon says softly. “I don’t want to miss breakfast.” 

Baz makes a noise. He reaches out his tattooed arm to curl around Simon’s waist. He tugs, and Simon rolls into him. Nose buried in Simon’s sweet-smelling hair, he is content, for just this moment. 

“Give me a little more time,” he pleads. Simon, it seems, understands that this is about more than sleeping in for five more minutes. He relaxes into Baz, gives him time and love. He meets him where he is. 

-

Somehow, the day manages to suck ass before it really even begins.

Agatha has a worried smile on when the boys eventually untangle themselves and descend into the dining hall. Hands laced as they enter, Simon tenses as soon as he sees Agatha. 

“Uh oh,” he says. Simon has been close with Agatha for a lot longer than Baz has. He takes Simon’s word for it that they’re in for trouble. 

They sit down next to Agatha and Penelope. 

“Someone let a dragon loose on the grounds,” Agatha says. Her silver hair glimmers in the braid she’s plaited. “It’s been dumbfounded by the sheer amount of downing spells that have been cast on it, so it’s subdued, but no on knows what to do with it. You missed all the fun.” 

“We were cuddling,” Simon protests. Penelope, glancing at Simon’s bitten neck (oops), snorts. 

“Sure,” she says. “I’m sure that’s all it was.” 

Simon blushes. Baz is unyielding. He’s proud of those marks. They prove that for now, Simon is his. For now, at least, this is them.

“Anyways, the dragon,” Penelope continues. “The Mage is looking for Simon. He wants him to banish it or something.” 

Agatha’s face is still drawn into that tight line. She’s staring at Baz like she’s waiting for him to intercede. 

Baz does nothing. The Mage, swooping in from across the room like a bird-possessed father figure, is the one who does something. 

“Simon Snow, the man of the hour,” The Mage cries, his ruddy face glimmering. Baz groans internally. He can’t stand the Mage, specifically, what the Mage does to Simon (it isn’t good). Simon treats him like his father, the Mage treats him like a pawn. “Have you heard about our scaly problem?” 

Dragons really aren’t that bad, is the thing. There’s reasonable research to conclude that they, like sharks, really only attack out of confusion or extreme hunger. Still, Baz, being more flammable than your average joe, tends to not want to deal with the fiery-end. He’s fine with being Simon’s backup and making sure he doesn’t get himself killed. 

“Yes,” Simon replies eagerly. “Do you need my help?”

Baz swears that Simon wouldn’t be so far up the Mage’s ass if he had a semi-normal childhood and a father figure who wasn’t absolutely using him for his power. 

Simon follows the Mage out of the dining hall. Baz gives them ten seconds once the doors close behind them with a resounding slam, and then rises to follow. Penelope and Agatha reach for their bags, but Baz shakes his head in a ‘no.’ He’s got this. 

The dining hall fails to watch Baz leave. For most, the excitement has left. Baz refuses to let Simon die on his marking day. He’s damn well going to find out who has that matching tattoo that will develop like film on Simon’s skin at midnight. 

He loves Simon endlessly. This could be a Khamsa story, a Romeo and Juliet ending where they’re left on the wrong sides of fate. Simon is the first person that Baz has ever really loved. The first person he’s trusted with all his weaknesses, all his secrets, the only person he’s kissed, loved, adored. Teased with love in his heart and a smile under his lips. Two years. Two years, and tonight threatens everything he’s ever had.

Simon and the Mage are crossing the courtyard now, spilling into the luxurious sunshine to where a dragon is stuck on the ground, looking particularly huffy with the amount of magic that’s trapped him to the earth. It is in moments of tension or fear, like this, that Baz feels It. The strings. The pull, like a magnet or a string, that connects him to Simon. He’s tried to bring it up before, say something about ‘hey, do you ever feel like we’re ? You know. Connected?’ And Simon just always laughs it of and says ‘of course.’ 

He isn’t sure that Simon understands the gravity of what he’s talking about. Simon’s magic is a loose cannon. But whenever Baz is near to Simon and they’re doing magic, it is almost as if he borrows some of Simon’s magic to channel into his own. 

The Mage says something to Simon. He reaches for his wand, extends it into the distance, and shoots magic out of his chest like a fucking cannon. It hits the dragon hard, soaring the thing up into the air. Enraged, it screams and looses its massive wings, opening it’s mouth to spit fire directly on Simon and the Mage. The Mage looks as if he’s about to do something to stop its fire, but he isn’t quick enough. 

Baz has already strode out from the shadows, wand alight, and is shouting Expecto Patronum at Simon and the Mage. (It’s a protection spell, even in this universe). 

The shield blasts around the Mage and Simon. Baz stalks across the open field, shedding his trenchcoat as he goes, tossing it onto the ground behind him as he raises his wand to slash out another spell. 

Then there is a blast. 

Then Baz’s mind goes empty, his head suddenly filled with the ringing that can only be accompanied by pain, somewhere in his body. 

Faintly, off in the distance, he hears Simon’s scream. He hears the Mage’s shrill tones desperately trying to banish the dragon. Why he summoned a 17-year-old out here to do it is beyond Baz, but then again, everyone knows that the Mage is a moron… except for Simon. 

There is a hand on his shoulder. Baz feels distinctly crispy and feels that he probably should be dead. 

It’s Simon, mouthing words that have no effect on Baz’s brain. He nods, and then Simon is looking up into the gaping maw of the dragon, who is breathing, and oh, fuck, they’re both going to get burnt to a crisp now. 

Baz is extending his wand and Simon his holding Baz with one arm and fumbling for his wand with the other, but he isn’t quick enough, Simon is clumsy and his magic is erratic, Baz could. If only Baz could –

The feeling is unlike anything he’s ever felt before. 

Perhaps, Baz thinks, this is what a soulmate feels like. It is as if Simon is reaching through him, offering his power like you offer a hand to shake. But this is deeper than just shaking hands. It echoes in his chest, in his magic, in his soul. 

The blast that extends from his wand is immense. The dragon crumples into a pile of ash, bursting into tiny paper cranes (?) that tumble to the ground in a blackened formation. One lands directly in front of Baz and Simon. It is smoldering, still. 

Simon looks at Baz, his mouth parted. 

‘Two blushing pilgrims,’ Baz thinks, and then he doesn’t think, and he kisses Simon instead. 

-

The Mage has them where he wants them – caged up in his office doing bureaucratic shit. He’s never seen students use each other’s magic before, and he’s aching to find out why. 

“You don’t even know if you’re soulmates!” The Mage screeches. “If you were soulbonded, this would be easier to believe. There’s been cases of partners being about to have uncanny bonds thanks to soulmarks, but NEVER unbonded couples.” 

Simon, who still smells very strongly of ash, and whose hair is mussed beyond belief (the jury is out to whether this is due to the dragon or Baz pinning him to the earth and kissing the shit out of him), is watching the Mage with worried, globe eyes. Baz is cleaning the mud out from under his fingernails. 

Whatever the reason that Simon can apparently channel his magic through Baz, he has bigger problems. Like Simon’s presenting soulmark. Like explaining to his family how fucking gay he is for a boy that may not even be his. Like his upcoming physics exam that he’s taking online. 

“Cool,” Baz says. 

“What does this mean?” Simon asks, knuckles white from gripping the chair so tightly. “Is there something wrong with my magic?” 

The Mage rests against the table to ponder this. Baz thinks he looks ridiculous. The Mage rests one hand against his chin and strokes it gently. Baz didn’t think he could look more dumb, but here we are. “I think there’s something extremely right with your magic,” the Mage says. “You and Baz have a special connection. Perhaps it is due to your close friendship?” 

‘Close friendship,’ Baz snorts. Because he totally didn’t have his tongue in Simon’s mouth an hour ago. Because those marks on his neck are TOTALLY hair curler burns. 

Simon just nods. He looks at Baz, as if to get his approval. Baz just rolls his eyes. 

“I think this is all bullshit,” he says. “Simon was going to die, and I intervened. How we did that could be adrenaline, something else, whatever. It’s not like we can recreate it.”

“Mmm,” the Mage says. “Could we? Lets-”

“-not sacrifice Simon to be your pet project,” Baz interrupts, rising from his seat. “Simon, do what you want, but my attendance at this meeting is no longer required, as far as I’m concerned.” 

He stalks to the door, closing it behind him with a resounding slam. He’s halfway down the hallway when he hears the sound of feet pounding after him. It’s Simon, panting in his burned uniform and singed hair. 

Baz’s chest twists. 

They both really could have died out there today. And the Mage was so close to just. Letting it happen. How could the so-called best wizard in the world let that happen without a second thought? Let the chosen one die like that? It was almost as if the Mage had planned in, perhaps to test Simon’s skills? His power? Whatever it was, Baz hates the idea of using Simon as a pawn. Especially when Simon himself can’t even see it. 

“What the hell was that?” Simon hisses as he catches up with Baz. “What did you just pull?” 

Baz turns around and snaps. “I’m tired.” Simon stutters to a halt and stands there, shell-shocked. “I’m tired of standing here and watching you get used by a homophobic old man who is clearly using you for your powers, and watching you refuse to stand up for yourself.” 

“-he’s not-”

“He IS, Simon, and that’s the problem. You have your head way too far up his ass to see how much trouble the Mage is. And even worse, how much trouble he gets you in. Today? You could have been killed. We could have been killed.”

Simon bunches his fists at his sides. “You don’t always have to come in to rescue me, you stupid Byronic hero.”

“Yeah,” Baz snorts, “but I don’t want you to die.” 

Simon looks like he might say something more, but Baz cuts him off. He spins on his heel and starts walking, down the corridor and back toward their tower. 

“I’m going to go take a shower,” Baz shouts. “Come chat when you’ve got your head on straight.”

‘Moron’, he thinks, as he stalks away. ‘He’s going to get himself killed one of these days.’ 

Simon Snow is not Baz’s whole world, but he’s the biggest part of the world that matters. He won’t stand for this. 

Nerves strung taught as a piano wire, Baz steps into his and Simon’s shared shower and begins to rinse himself off. It is only then that he allows the stress of the morning to recede. 

He leans against the back wall, sits down, naked as he came, vulnerable, and begins to cry. 

Today, he almost died. Worse, Simon almost got killed alongside him. Tonight, there will be a mark on Simon’s body, and it may not match the one that stains Baz’s skin. 

On the worst day, Baz leans against the wall and sobs the whole world away. 

-

Baz doesn’t really need to try to be best in his year. But he does anyways. Except not today. Curling up in his bed, in a pair of jeans he keeps for the odd times he doesn’t need to be in formal-wear or his boxers, Baz wraps his wet hair into a bun and curls up with his physics textbook and tries to forget the horrors of the morning. It works well until lunchtime rolls around and his stomach remembers that he didn’t get a chance to eat at breakfast. 

He changes and slips downstairs, blustering into the dining hall and pointed avoiding Simon, Agatha, and Penelope, who are definitely staring. 

Dev and Niall, two of his football buddies, are parked at a table, laughing and elbowing each other. Baz parks himself beside them with a salad carelessly tossed onto his plate.

“Trouble in paradise?” Niall joshes him, and Baz rolls his eyes.

“Simon’s being a stubborn git. Also, I almost got toasted by a dragon this morning. Please let me eat my salad in peace and make normal conversation.” 

“Mm, we heard about the dragon incident. We missed you in advanced defense charming, by the way. Your boyfriend was all kinds of fucked up and his magic was everywhere.”

Simon lets his emotions get in the way of his magic sometimes. Baz can only image the chaos of a pissed off and riled up Simon in a class that demands precision and concentration. In short, a disaster. 

“I love him so much,” Baz says, “but he can be so, so dumb.” 

Niall rolls his eyes. “As if we know anything about having significant others.” 

“Your fault,” Baz counters, “not mine.”

-

Evening rolls around. Baz attends his afternoon classes, casually deflects questions, comments, and concerns with a steely glare, and successfully ignores Simon through all of it. It isn’t until after dinner, and Baz is back to his physics textbook, that he is confronted with the massive problem that is Simon Snow. 

Simon plops himself down on his bed, and reaches one hand across Baz’s bedspread to rest it on his lower thigh. 

“Hey,” he says gently, “I think that we should talk.” 

Baz closes the textbook slowly. “You know,” he says icily, “whenever I thought about how today would go, I really didn’t think it would end up with us almost getting torched, then getting in a massive fight, then spending all day avoiding each other while I cried in the shower.” 

Simon’s lips make a perfect ‘o.’

“I imagined,” Baz continues, “frankly, that we’d spend the day fucking like rabbits, ditching classes and being desperate and teenagers and so stupidly in love that we couldn’t part from each other’s sides. I didn’t really factor in the dragon thing.” 

Simon starts to form an apology. 

“I don’t want an apology, I just want. I want – I want what’s best for you. I want you to be happy and feel supported and loved. I’m sorry I acted like a dick to you and the Mage earlier, but I really just don’t like how that guy treats you. And us. So that’s why I’m upset, I guess. That he led you into a situation where you could have been killed, but you refuse to see anything but the good in him.”

Simon treads carefully. Baz can see him picking out the words. “I don’t. Think that the Mage is a bad person. I think that he’s a little dense sometimes, and I think that he’s trying to figure out,” Simon points to his chest, “whatever is wrong with me that makes my magic all weird.” 

“Yeah,” Baz says, “but there’s plenty of weird at Watford. I’m a fucking vampire. Agatha is too beautiful to be fully human. Penelope – god, she has the patience of a saint. And your magic isn’t fucked up, it’s chaotic. There’s a difference.” He pauses. “I don’t know why the Mage can’t just let you be special without having to meddle in your life.”

Simon shrugs, but makes the motion to move a little closer. Baz reaches out an arm and beckons him in. Simon tumbles into his lap, head placed firmly on Baz’s tummy. 

“Now what?” He asks. 

“We wait,” Baz replies, checking his watch. It’s eight in the afternoon. They have, as it feels, an entire eternity. Forever, stretched between the span of four hours. 

Simon sighs, asks if they want to get dinner. Baz isn’t particularly hungry. And more than that, he really doesn’t want to go down and see everyone. He doesn’t want to interact, knowing eyes gazing at he and Simon’s tangled hands, assuming, placing their noses where they don’t belong. This love is ours, he thinks. And ours alone. 

For a while, they lay in silence, listening to each other’s breathing and relaxing in the comfort of their presence. Simon feels like a warm blanket, comfortable and familiar. Baz never really knew that he loved touch so much before he and Simon got together. Where Simon seems to enjoy it, Baz adores it, craves the gentle touches, the brushes of hands against his own. He doesn’t like to admit it. He’s mysterious, dark haired and tall, bony and sharp, always poised and in sharp clothing and well-tied ties. He’s a vampire for fuck’s sake. He’s a Pitch. 

And there is a boy curled onto his chest, smiling and lovely, with Baz’s fingers tangled in his hair, rubbing his scalp. There is a boy whom Baz loves with his whole heart, that he may lose today due to circumstances that they can’t control and cannot change. 

He pulls on Simon’s hair. “C’mere,” he says, and Simon obliges, lifts his head from Baz’s stomach and crawling up to his side. He rests his head on the pillow next to Baz and reaches an arm around to drape his shoulders. “Kiss me,” Baz demands, pulls Simon into him, buries his hands in the back of Simon’s head, yanks his perfect curls as he kisses him. 

Simon responds eagerly, leaning into Baz and curling his arm tighter around his shoulder. They slide closer, slipping into each other’s pockets, licking into each other’s mouths, leaning into each other’s spaces, and then – here, Simon’s leg is sliding between Baz’s dress slacks, his hand sliding down Baz’s sides. 

Love is strange. Baz knows Simon’s body better than he knows his own, knows all the curves of his body and the buttons to press to make him kneel, all the ways to take Simon’s breath away, the way you can grab at the back of his head and yank on his hair to make him moan into your mouth. 

Here they are, unbuckling each other’s belts, bucking into each other’s hips, their mouths yawning caves, arching into each other in perfect symphony. Time is a stage, they are performing. The minutes tick down, red wires crossed on a bomb. Untouchable, Baz groans into Simon’s neck, darkens the mark that he left the night before, the mark he woke up to this morning, needing to leave something of his on Simon, so in three hours and twenty-four and one half minutes, when Simon gets marked, Baz’s mark will be there too. 

The world is warm and humming. Baz reaches down, dipping his fingers into Simon’s underwear, grasping at his cock, straining against the fabric of his boxers. Yanking his pants and underwear down with his own hands, Simon’s eyes are closed and mouth half open. He looks beautiful and immortal. Baz makes him look like this, makes Simon beautiful and immortal. Baz may be immortal, but he does not feel necessarily beautiful unless he is like this, spilled out with Simon moaning his name and whimpering into his mouth. 

He pulls at Simon’s cock, yanks the moan and whines and gasps straight from his lunch, teases him and twists them across his skin, murmurs reassurances, makes sure Simon is safe and comfortable and good.

“Crazy in love,” Baz whispers, and he takes Simon’s magic with him. He feels the grasp of hands against his own skin, the rushing pleasure of carnal desire, the endless bliss of being loved and being touched. He falls into Simon, kissing him, rolling on top of him, keeping his hand working Simon’s pulsing cock, drawing the orgasm from him. When he comes, Baz shudders from the feeling of release that echoes through his own body. 

“Let me,” Simon begs, still panting. “I want you,” his face is flushed, body pink from exertion and pleasure. “Please,” he whispers, reaching one arm up to drag Baz in for a kiss. He mumbles something into Baz’s mouth, something that isn’t words but more of a verbalized emotion. Baz nods, tugs his pants down for Simon, and the world fades into bliss. 

-

Later, tracing each other’s arms in bed, Baz checks his watch. It is nearing ten pm. Simon is sprawled on his chest, wearing a hoodie and studying the pale, near-translucent skin of Baz’s hands. Baz watches the freckles on Simon’s skin, studies them. Memorizes them, the constellation skin of this boy, the boy who changes his whole world. The boy he is soft for, gentle with, careful of, a side of Baz that he doesn’t always know how to show but always yearns to give to Simon. 

In return, Simon always gives him his all. Gives him his love, his attention, his trust, all these things that Baz used to dream of but hid under a shell of animosity. 

Simon nuzzles deeper into his chest. Baz holds him just a little bit tighter, promises himself that he’ll only drift off for a second, only because he’s warm and comfortable and when he’s asleep, he isn’t worrying about the ink that will grow onto Simon’s skin. Just a moment of bliss, so close his eyes and dream of something greater. 

He tells himself this. 

He passes out. 

-

The morning sun is what wakes them. It cuts through the window, through the curtains they forgot to close the night before, because after sex, cuddles and minimal movement are the only things that are necessary. Baz comes to blearily, Simon drooling on his chest. Everything feels normal, right, just another day with class and Dev and Niall being oblivious and football involving too many suicide drills and –

Oh. 

The hand spilled across his body belongs to a boy. It is flipped over, palm side up, basking in the morning sun. Ink is jettisoned across his palms, his perfect, gentle palms, where Baz tangles his hand with his and kisses, the hand that holds Simon’s wand, that casts chaotic spells, that, oh god. 

His forearm. 

A pair of spilling bat wings, bending across the pale skin of Simon’s arms. Baz shakes him awake with a whisper. 

“Simon,” he says, “look.”

They match. 

Fuck. Simon Snow is his soulmate. Simon is his soulmate. His Simon, blearily blinking sleep from his eyes with a gentle grin. 

“I know,” he says, “I already checked.” 

“And you didn’t WAKE ME UP?” Baz cries, affronted. Simon shrugs. 

“I already knew.” He says. “And I hoped you did too.” 

Baz pulls his boy into his arms, kisses him, and grins. His boy. His boy forever. His soulmate.


End file.
